We All Fall Down
by KO-Crossed
Summary: He wanted more. More of Brooklyn for himself, not just a rag tag bunch of street kids who sold newspapers and shined shoes. They may have been the sweat and tears of the city, but Spot wanted more than that. He wanted her heart.


_"Okay__ Sean__, put one foot here," the m__an instructed__ his eight year old son__, a cigarette grippe__d between his lips as he directed the movements of the young boy, "__and the other one here. Now, when I swing, you move, alright?"_

_Sean mo__ved his feet so they were placed where his father wanted him, bouncing a little in excitement as he anticipated the coming blow. He nodded, his gray eyes bright as he snuck a glance across the street to a neighbor's house, wondering if the teenage boys that lived inside were watching. Even _they_ would have to be impressed with how good a fighter he was._

_Sean was__ just turning back to look at his father, when a huge fist smashed into the side of his face. He felt his body follow the direction of the blow, twisting as he fell to land face first in the dirt. The whole left side of his face was a solid ache, and Sean could feel tears prickling his eyes at the shock of the pain. Sean Conlon did not cry though, because real men do not cry. _

_"PATRICK CONLON!" The shriek was instantly followed by the swishing of skirts and his step mother's—or step monster's, as he liked to refer to her—arms reaching out to help him off the ground. Honestly. Women were so dramatic. __"What has gotten into you, Pat!?__ You could have killed him!"_

_"… He didn't move," Patrick replied, as if that should've explained everything to his near frantic wife, "C'mon son, we'll get some ice on that face__."_

_"He didn't—__h__onestly Pat, what do you think he's going to learn from all this fighting?" She asked him__, hands on her hips as Patrick guided__ Sean towards the house__ with a hand on his shoulder_

_"Well, he learned that he should move next time."_

**Ten Years Later**

"He didn't move."

"What?" Will asked, shooting his friend an odd look. Sometimes Spot Conlon made less sense than a pancake.

"The fighter. He coulda easily dodged that punch. He didn't move," Spot answered, his eyes trained on the street boxing match they'd stopped to watch. "He's gettin' tired and the other guy knows it. Shouldn't be long 'fore this match is over. A dime says he'll go down in the next round."

"Ah," Will nodded, turning his attention back to the fight. He mulled over the offer of a bet, knowing Spot was usually right about such things, but the opportunity to gamble wasn't one he usually passed up. Besides, the boxer didn't look _that_ tired. He looked like he could last more than one round. "A dime, eh? Alright, Conlon, you're on."

Spot's face remained impassive as they watched the remainder of the fight, but he couldn't help a small smirk of victory when the second boxer went down like a rock in the next round. He held his hand out accepting his grumbling friend's money and slipping it into his pocket.

"When are you gonna learn not to take every gamble that comes your way, eh McKinnon?" Spot asked through thinly veiled humor.

"When you stop only making bets you know you can win," Will replied easily, shoving his hands into his pockets as the two forced their way through the gathered crowd.

"Speaking of bets," Spot began after a moment's silence, "You missed a hell of a game last night. You got a new dame you've been seeing or something?"

Will had the tendency to disappear from the street rat social scene for weeks at a time when he found a new girl to woo, though none of his relationships seemed to last longer than those initial few weeks. He had a reputation of being a ladies' man, and he was quite content with that lifestyle.

"Nah, I was out with Abigail again," Will replied nonchalantly, his shoulders lifting in a slight shrug, grinning at Spot, "I'll catch the next one though, I know you all can't have half as much fun when I'm not around."

"Abigail? Again? I thought that relationship's expiration date had already come up. How long's it been, a whole month now?" Spot's eyebrows were raised at his friend's confession, Will McKinnon never stayed with a girl for such an extended period of time.

"Yeah, well, I'm not bored," Will replied simply, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it before speaking again, "I dunno, Spot. There's just something about that girl."

"Should I be looking around for any flying pigs, here, Will, cause I think you just told me you've actually fallen for a girl," Spot wasn't shocked, per se, because nothing ever shocked Spot. But he was mildly surprised. He'd known Will longer than he'd known anybody else in this world, and he'd never expected to hear of him falling for one girl.

"Yeah, well, maybe I have. Stranger things have happened… Somewhere in the world." Will grinned cheekily. He knew his own reputation well enough, but that didn't mean people didn't change. "In fact, I think now would be a good time to drop in and pay Abby a visit. I'll catch you back at the lodge, later, Spot. Don't take any wooden nickels."

Spot rolled his eyes, waving the other boy away before turning to complete the trek to Brooklyn on his own. It was interesting, the way everyone was changing. He was the only one that had seemed to hold onto his lot in life. Brooklyn. Brooklyn was Spot's lady, and that was simply the way it was. He had to admit, though, working as a newsie was getting tiring. He wanted more. More of Brooklyn for himself, not just a rag tag bunch of street kids who sold newspapers and shined shoes. They may have been the sweat and tears of the city, but Spot wanted more than that. He wanted to get inside her head. He wanted the heart of Brooklyn.

And he knew it should be his. After all, he _was_ Brooklyn, according to most of the newsies. A force to be reckoned with.

These same thoughts had been haunting him for months now. Pushing at the back of his mind and reminding him how discontented the feeling leading the newsies left him now. There was a time in his life that the newsies were all he needed, but that time was long gone. He was no longer a child. No longer a kid with a slingshot and a cane, proving himself to the world. He was past that.

His feet led him up the familiar steps to the lodging house, and he reached out, smacking the so called "lucky brick" with his hand. He didn't know who had come up with the idea of having a lucky brick, but it was there, and every newsboy that entered knew they had to touch it as they entered or be doomed to a lifetime of bad luck. The surface of the brick was rubbed smooth by years of likeminded individuals who had come before. Though Spot didn't particularly believe in luck, he did believe in tradition, and that kept him tapping that brick every time his legs carried him past it.

He entered the lodge and started up the stairs when the Registrar's voice gave him pause, "Young Master Conlon, you have a visitor in the lobby. He's been waiting for you."

Spot's eyebrows snapped together as he turned, questioning the old man, "What visitor?"

Who would come to see Spot and feel the need to be announced? All his boys knew where his bunk was, they wouldn't be waiting in the lobby for him. The man shrugged, and Spot moved past the old man and into the lobby, sharp eyes scanning the room.

A man sat on the couch, rising to his feet as Spot entered, "Spot Conlon," he greeted, his voice like iron nails, "I've been waiting for you."


End file.
